


Don't Talk back (Just Leave Me Alone)

by yanderekirklandchan



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Depression, Fix-It of Sorts, Hot Space Era, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-10-16 21:28:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17553530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yanderekirklandchan/pseuds/yanderekirklandchan
Summary: While creating Hot Space, the band are at each other's throats. Brian knows he's the reason. With the change in style, his family falling apart, the guitar being cut and all his friends' animosity it's too much. He resorts to a dark coping mechanism, but when Paul leaks it to the press his life is over.





	1. Chapter 1

How had it come to this? Brian stood outside the studio door, dreading going in. It was stupid, really. Why should I dread going to work with his best friends doing a job that he loved? It was madness. Queen, Roger and John and Freddie, had been his life for so long, the light of his life, his undying passion. It wasn’t just a job and they weren’t just colleagues. He knew for a fact that that was the truth, he wasn’t some fan somewhere reading newspapers and trying to figure out the bigger picture. No, he was Brian May, a member of Queen. This was life for him not a new article or TV interview. He knew that they weren’t faking their friendship, not even a bit. They were best friends and they loved and cared for each other. It wasn’t just the job, they were always spending time together.

It was all true, very true, and yet Brian found himself doubting it. If they were such good friends then why did they never see each other? If they truly loved one another then why was it that all they did was hurt each other or maintain silent, uncaring indifference? How could it have possibly all changed so fast? More and more Brian found himself wondering whether he’d been a gullible fool all along. Had the act of friendship been so good that he’d fell for it himself? Well, if it was an act then no one bothered to keep it up now. Brian swallowed thickly, steeling himself as he entered, bracing against the inevitable impact of ruthless death cuts.

It was so silent as he entered, though three pairs of eyes lay on him as he entered, each as weary as him. It was a battlefield, no one wanted to die but no one wanted to back down. Sure, in a war soldiers started as puppets of the situation but as time went on things got more vicious, battles and casualties got more painful, more personal. They’d reached the point in the war where shooting each other became as natural as breathing. Brian shakily willed his limbs to walk to his guitar, picking it up and trying to make himself as small as possible.

This silence was awful, though it meant a merciful break from the fighting. His anxiety had dialed so high that he could taste bile at the back of his throat and, try as he might, his hands shook too violently for him to play a decent chord. It didn’t matter, though, there wasn’t any room for a petty rock guitar in disco. There wasn’t any need for him at all. He tried not to take it personally, he could almost believe that it wasn’t personal if anyone still bothered to be civil, if not friendly, with him. But the message was loud and clear: you’re worthless to us and unwanted, Brian May.

Well, Brian wasn’t an idiot. He could take a hint. Before he had tried to give his input, it wasn’t that he had anything against Freddie and John’s taste of music it was just that he could already tell that the album was a bad move. Their fans wouldn’t like it. When he’d said as much he’d been violently shot down, hackles raised all around. ‘People didn’t like Bohemian Rhapsody and look where we are now', was the argument. It was true, of course, but Brian thought that his band mates were starting to forget the difference between fans and critics. It didn’t after what the critics thought but what the fans thought meant everything. Their lives depended on the fans, their purpose was to please them. He was absolutely sure that this Hot Space album wouldn’t go down well.

He didn’t mean to offend John or Freddie. They’d always managed to keep creative differences and their friendship aside, be able to work through it all and stay professional. They’d always pushed and questioned and criticized, it’s what made their work so flawless. But this time when he’d tried to change things, tried to express his opinion, he’d been shot down in a heart beat. Cold words, hateful glares, they even got into physical fights every other day now. Brian liked to think that it was all Paul’s fault, pouring poison in the pot. But every day made him realise that just wasn’t true. To find a root of a problem, you must find the common factor. The common factor was him.

It was when he opened his mouth that things got heated. It was when he entered the room that things got awkward. It was when he suggested changes that it wasn’t perceived as ‘constructive feedback' but ‘cynical insults'. When he wasn’t around everything went smoothly, even if things had lost their earlier spark irreparably. Well, he’d learnt from that. He’d be a hypocrite if he couldn’t take constructive criticism. He was determined to keep his mouth shut and smile today, and from now on. Even if he wanted to scream, or collapse on the floor and cry. Even if he wanted to beg on his knees for his friends to tell him they still cared. Even if he was hurting so bad that he felt like he was going to throw up or burst into tears or pass out.

“So, what, are we going to continue from yesterday?” Roger asked, sounding exhausted.  
Freddie shook his head “No, I think we’d better start a fresh. We’ve all gotten a bit…” a look was shot his way “…tired and bothered over that.”  
“Yeah, that’s probably for the best.” Roger conceded, avoiding eye contact.  
“Well, I have just finished righting something, actually. We could work on that.” John said with an undeniably proud look, though there was something else hidden there. Was it… guilt?  
Brian cleared his throat “Yeah… yeah, let’s hear it, John.” He said with a small smile, voice husky from crying and lack of use.

The whole room looked at him, Roger in surprise, Freddie warily and John with a slightly offended look, hackles obviously raised. Brian sighed to himself, had he already accidentally been offensive? He supposed his words could have been seen as condescending, he really hadn’t want anything of the sort.  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” John asked hotly.  
Brian raised his hands, eyes wide in fear of having triggered another fight “It means that I want to hear the song!” he said defensively. He winced painfully, seeing his unintentionally provocative tone. Had he been so snide lately that all his words were second guessed?

“Cool it, dear,” Freddie said, voice cold and detached “Why don’t you at least give John a chance? I’ve heard it. It’s a good song.”  
“Yeah, thanks, Fred. Nice to have some support at least.” John huffed.  
Brian’s skin prickled. Great, even when he was trying to be nice he started a fight.  
“I'm being supportive! I literally just asked to hear it!” he argued, slightly hysterically.  
“You’re being a wanker, is what you’re being.” John muttered under his breath.  
“Hey, do you mean that song you played the riff of to me the other day?” Roger said in recognition. He grinned “Yeah, that one’s catchy.”

Brian looked between them all, trying to ignore the hurt inside him “Oh, so you’ve all heard it but me? Yeah, that’s just bloody brilliant. What friends we are, what colleagues we are. How are we supposed to work on this album together if you all hide stuff from me?”  
“How are we supposed to share stuff with you when all you do is talk shit?” John hissed. Brian’s eyes widened, it never failed to shock him how much animosity had risen between him and John, which was strange as it was a daily occurrence.  
Brian looked down, digging his nails into his palms “Why don’t we just get on with it?” he said in a low, numb voice, his heart throbbing painfully. He should just not talk at all.

Everyone backed off, the tension falling from ‘monumental’ to it’s regular ‘moderate’. John got up and walked over to Freddie, handing him the lyrics. Roger sat back to watch, folding his arms and sitting behind his drum set, which had almost come as out of use as the guitar these days. Brian sat back and took a deep breath, he had to have an open mind, he’d done enough damage already.  
Freddie started to sing.  
“Yeah  
Get back get back  
Back chat back chat  
You burn all my energy  
Back chat back chat  
Criticizing all you see  
Back chat back chat  
Analyzing what I say  
Back chat back chat  
And you always get your way”

Brian paled at the lyrics, slumping back against the wall. He may be a paranoid bastard but… Oh, this was definitely about him. He listened on. He felt sick, actually having to swallow to stop himself from throwing up. Was he really so bad that John writing a hate song about him was called for? Was he really so hated? Yes, he knew with excruciating certainly, yes he was. Brian listened silently, eyes wet and stinging. He couldn’t force himself to smile, his face felt slack and numb, he felt too weak to even make an expression. He listened on, heart breaking more and more with each word. Was he really so bad? Fuck. He’d never hated himself so much in his life.

When the words stopped and the bass cut, Brian barely registered it. He was breathing hard, trying not to cry. He wasn’t angry, wasn’t offended, he felt as if he’d lost any fire. Because it was all so very true. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt, he was just too weak to bear it. Distantly he heard them talk, compliment the song, compliment the singing. He swallowed against his fry throat, blinking back tears and biting his lip so it would shake so pathetically. He had to talk. It was weird if he didn’t talk. They’d notice his embarrassing, childish tears if he didn’t play it cool.

“So, what’s the guitar in it like?” he asked, trying to sound casual. The voice escaped his lips monotonous, lifeless. He could barely taste the words on his numb lips. His temples throbbed in pain.  
“There is no guitar, Brian, it’s disco.” John said, voice clipped.  
Worthless, unneeded, unwanted, hated. Brian stood shakily, his chair falling back with a dramatic screech. He stared wide eyed at the men in front of him, the attention pinning him lime a collector’s butterfly. He had to get out. He had to get out right now. If he stayed any longer he’d burst into tears and then he’d look even more worthless and pathetic. He had to run. Fuck it, he had to run and not look back. No one wanted him, no one needed him, that means he shouldn’t be there.

“I… I… I need go do something with my kids, I forgot. Need to go.” He managed to fumble out before turning on his heel and all but running. He had only just made it out he doors when the tears burst then dam, flooding with no stop. Behind him, he heard Paul’s voice.  
“What a self pitying attention seeker.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg I'm not dead. What? I'm back? Idk but hey I'm here right now for your dosage of angst

Brian didn’t know how exactly he ended up in a cab, if asked to recall how he’d gotten there, or even where he’d said to go to the driver, he’d come up blank. Still, the direction seemed to be about right for his house so he assumed he’d said at least something correct. He saw the driver’s eyes flash over to him every now and then in the mirror, though he remained indifferent as if he hadn’t seen them at all. Perhaps he was afraid, Brian didn’t imagine he looked particularly put together right now. No, if his reflection in the rain splattered window was anything to go by, he looked white insane. Or maybe he was worried about him. That was a nice thought. If he was then this unnamed taxi driver had singlehandedly shown him more affection than the band or his wife and kids had in months. It was probably because he didn’t know him. Brian was toxic, if anyone got close, if anyone tried to be nice he’d corrupt it, he’d drain the life from them then complain when things went sour.

Or perhaps the taxi driver was actually going to murder him. It was quite common, really. He hadn’t even checked the credentials of the driver, for all he knew he was being kidnapped right now and didn’t even know it. Oh well. Who really cared if he was stabbed and dumped in some alley or forest? Not the band. Not his wife. Not his kids. Not even his fans, they’d all turned on him now, fuelled by press. Well, the press was fuelled by him so really his fans had every right to hate him by causation. Well, anyway, if he was murdered a lot of people would be happy, including himself. He closed his eyes and let out a shuddered breath. He might not mind all the hatred if he didn’t know it was true. How could he defend himself when every word would be a lie? And if he couldn’t defend himself then all that was left was to curl up and cry. Or die.

He let his head fall back onto the cold, hard glass. The relentless pattering of rain was like his thoughts, a constant bombardment in his head, overwhelming and he had no power to stop them. It hurt so damn much. He deserved it probably but still... It hurt so fucking damn much. It hurt because he, the idiot he was, had fooled himself into believing for so long that they cared about him, that he had a family, that they had each other’s backs. He tricked himself into thinking he belonged, into thinking he was worth something to someone, thinking he was valued when he’d known full well all along that he wasn’t. He’d known he was worthless, unloved, repulsive rubbish but when someone else said something even mildly insulting he’d spike up like a puffer fish. How weak of him. He thought he had a family but now the delusion had fell. Freddie and John and Roger were amazing people, they were diamond in the rough that was humanity.

They were a family, there was no mistaking it, but he was not a part of it. He was an employee because this was a job, let there be no mistaking it. He was employed for his service of playing the guitar. But now his services were no longer needed, there was no room for his guitar in disco. And if there was it could easily be done using some other new technology. Computers had a better temperament than him. Computers never back chat. He pulled his coat tighter around himself, not bothering to blink back tears. Gathering dignity was pointless, it’d be lipstick on a pig. Dry cheeks and white eyes didn’t make up for a rotten personality. A rotten soul. He grimaced, his head throbbing so hard he could barely hear the rain. His home situation was similar to work. Perfect people who he’d ruined the lives of and therefore didn’t want him around. Being home always ended with fighting and tears. But right now, distraught as he was, he couldn’t think of anything more bloody glorious than going to the place that he called home.

He found himself walking up the driveway, no recollection of getting out of the taxi. He wasn’t dead. That was... nice, he supposed. He shivered, but despite the cold he knew it wasn’t the cause. Within him there had settled a deep agony, a bitter freezing coldness that unrelentingly allowed him no mercy. It was a feeling like a promise that nothing would be okay. It was alright, he deserved the pain. It wasn’t new, only stronger. It’d been growing for a while. He’d been falling apart for a while. His hands clawed at his palms. So selfish, so selfish, so selfish. It was his fault. He’d caused this. Now he was reaping his reward. The world tended to be fair like that, no matter how loud he screamed at the sky about all the ‘injustices’ he’d been dealt. He decided to save his breath and accept his sentence.

He smiled softly when he saw silhouetted figures behind the curtain, light pouring through. He and Chrissie were struggling, at the moment. In fact, he was certain they were getting divorced, they just had to choose the right time for the children’s sake. But despite all that, he still loved her, there was still a companionship there forged from the life experiences, the type of relationship that hung on by a thread in honour of feelings that once were, like a salute to the dead and gone. It would break but he would enjoy it while he could. It was always nice to come home, especially when the outside world cut so deep. Home was a shelter, a safe place, a bed to rest your weary head and hide from the brutal truths of reality a little while longer. He couldn’t wait to see his children, so small and sweet. They were beautiful, like their mother.

He sneaked a glance in at the window, before opening the door, wanting to glimpse his family, feed his aching eyes with a soothing sight. He leant in just enough to see and he froze, his blood went cold. There was a man there, a stranger. At first he was terrified, his family were in trouble. But then he noticed the smiles and laughs and happiness, far more happiness than he’d experienced at home in a long time. Far more happiness than he’d experienced anywhere, for that matter. Then, with a horrid feeling deep inside because he already knew the truth, he mused that it might be a family friend or a plumber. But he knew. Oh, he knew as any man would, with a sickening feeling washing over him from head to toe. Still, he felt guilty for listening.

“—h, really? Oh bless! You simply must arrange a meeting between us, it’s been too long!” Chrissie exclaimed, her voice musical with laughter.  
“I’d be happy to, my love, and I’m sure they would be too! When are you all free next?” the man said, voice sickeningly attractive.  
“Any time, any time, honey.” Chrissie assured.  
A hesitation “But what about—?”  
“Oh please, he’s never home. He’s gone so long he’d be a stranger should he dare set foot back.”  
“Don’t worry, sugar, I know he don’t treat you right. But I will. There’s a new sheriff in town and I take my responsibilities as a husband and a father seriously.”  
“Thank you. Thank you so much. I... I just won’t waist another second on fuc—” a pause “On, infuriating,” she amended “Brian May.”  
Brian pulled away, suddenly able to move his limbs again, though for the life of him he couldn’t feel them. He’d heard enough.

He ran, directionless, desperate and staggering. He didn’t know where he was going—where was there left to go?—but he knew he had to get wherever it was fast. Before his lungs stopped working and his heart failed, he could feel that was coming. He felt so sick that, had he eaten anything for the past two days, he would have thrown up. Even then, he gagged messily as he ran. He was having a panic attack but he couldn’t stop running. Even if the horizon line was getting wavy. That confirmed it. He was worthless. Unwanted. He was replaced as a colleague and as a friend, by a machine nonetheless. He was replaced as a father and as a husband. By someone who was undeniably better at both rolls already. Somehow, that hurt more than him being an awful person. Because in this situation, in all situations, he was the villain. He didn’t know where to go. He couldn’t go into public locations because he was constantly followed by journalists and ‘fans' turned haters and headlines about whatever new ‘scandal’ he was allegedly involved in. He couldn’t go to his friends for help, because he didn’t have any. He couldn’t go home.

Perhaps he could go to work? Yes, the others would have left by now. Hopefully. Any more cruel truths and he’d kill himself. Or perhaps just drop dead. He wasn’t needed at work but he could always make himself useful by cleaning up or something. He could find a corner to sleep in, too, and just say he was working late and passed out, so no one had to know that he was a sad pathetic excuse for a man who was such an awful husband that he’d been replaced and was now technically homeless. Brian ran the whole way back, though it took him hours. He knew he’d never fallen this low. There was no way of fixing this, there was no way out. There wasn’t even anyone he could turn to. He was alone.


End file.
